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Those damn ducks, raising his blood pressure and graying his hair, they’d take him to his early grave. He wasn’t a quitter—that was one reason he found his way back to the county fair. The churro ice-cream boats next door, those were another. School let out weeks ago for summer and he’s got a few hundred in allowance saved up for bullshit, that’s one more.
He ignores the rest.
The rest stood an inch shorter than him, built like a boxer, and had an attitude problem. The rest had caramel hair, mischievous eyes and a smile that suggested all sorts of things. Pity mostly.
“Would start givin’ ya a discount but don’t want ya to think you’re special.” The rest says in way of greeting.
“Don’t pretend to be soft on me. I know you ain’t got feelings.” Rick says, easily.
“Oh, I feel alright, just badly—for you.”
“Know what I need?”
“What’s that?” The rest, Daryl, asks, “Coordination? Some shame?”
He looks at Rick like he always does, like Rick always feels around the guy, like a dollop of melting ice cream on a waffle cone.
“No, for you to shove it and give me my darts!” Rick says.
Daryl’s hair is colored to a flair of sunlight, the heat licks at his exposed shoulder blades, and he’s rosy there, up his neck, at his cheeks and to the tip of his nose, sweating some down the front of his deep-v white tee. He flicks his hair out his eyes and crosses his arms. It strains the fabric at his bicep. It’s all very concerning, so Rick looks away. He focuses on the the damn cardboard ducks, mocking and knowing and unfairly unaffected, until the pack of darts that Daryl’s suddenly shoved into his upturned hand calls him back to the conversation.
“Got a way with words, Grimes. Ever consider writin’, or just havin’ hobbies other than losin’?” Daryl asks, when he’s retreating back in the shade of the booth.
“Sure, the bard and I go back a ways.” Rick says.
And then he’s throwing a dart and missing spectacularly. The duck wiggles with a rush of summer breeze and Rick glares at it.
“How come ya didn’t stick to it?” Daryl asks.
Rick takes another shot, his tongue stuck out in concentration.
“Wasn’t my passion.” Rick says.
Then he loses another shot. He thinks that he hears the red-headed child behind him in line giggle, and when he looks back, the child is stuffing cotton candy the size of Rick’s head into their tiny mouth. Rick goes back to the task at hand.
“Elmer Fuddin it your life long goal, huh?” Daryl says with a laugh.
Rick takes another shot, and it clips the edge of one of the duck’s wings before it cuts out and falls to the ground. Rick shouts some creative expletives that earns a few indignant responses from the parents around the booth and a loud laugh from Daryl.
“When will you admit you’re setting me up?” Rick asks.
“When ya give up, ya stubborn jackass.” Daryl says, coming closer again.
He’s as close as he could get with the booth barrier between them, just studying Rick. Daryl’s eyes flicker all over his face, from his hair, to his ears, to his nose, and mouth and then the bastard’s blue eyes, slanted and telling, are back to looking into Rick’s
“Suppose it’s a stalemate.” Rick says.
Rick feels winded with the sudden intimacy he feels that had come with the duration of their hold, and he sucks in a cartoonish breath, gulping so loud that Daryl breaks it.
“Guess we’ll be here all fuckin’ summer, won’t we?” Daryl says.
“Got nothin’ better to do.” Rick throws his last dart, but his arm is weak with nerves. It does less of a soar through the air and more of a purposefully composed crash into the tarp that lies just shy of Daryl’s shin.
“Christ, tryin' to kill me?” Daryl laughs. “And no shit.”
“Whatever, set me up.”
Rick retrieves his wallet, fumbling around for the 5$ he’ll owe Daryl after the next set and slams it on the bench in front of him.
“Tell ya what, ya win this next round,” Daryl says, retrieving the darts, his back away from Rick, “I’ll let ya take me out for a slice.”
Rick’s mouth parts in a half formed question, then snaps shut when the darts are shoved in his chest and he’s got to scramble to catch them before they fall to the floor.
“What—I’m not—that’s not what I’m here for.” Rick protests.
“Hell ya aint. Take the shot.” Daryl says simply.
Rick doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. Daryl’s face has fallen blank, he’s stood at the side of the booth now, probably weary of Rick’s misbehaving throwing arm, and picking idly at some lint or string that’s gotten stuck on his shirt. Rick doesn’t trust it.
With a lack of bravery or for anything smarter to do, like ask any and all questions that he wants to, Rick takes a breath and he throws a dart. It’s not a center shot, but it still lands and stays carved into the cardboard duck. He doesn’t believe it. It has to be a set up—why else would he suddenly be able to make a duck when he hasn’t this whole summer? And then he has another thought so fast that he doesn’t notice that he’s saying it aloud.
“Wait, how’s that a prize for me?” Rick finally asks.
He throws another winning shot. Rick scratches at his ear, and wipes the sweat off his brow with a thumb. He don’t get it. It’s not making sense.
“Don’t say ya ain’t good for it, man, I’ve pocketed a month worth of your loss!” Daryl says, adjusting his shirt.
He adjusts his stance, too, throwing his hands in his pockets, then thinking better than it probably because he crosses his arms. Instead of thinking too hard on all this oddly jittery movement of Daryl’s, Rick throws another dart. It hits the duck farthest left, dangles weakly at its wing but stays.
“So why’s it I gotta pay?” Rick says.
“Don’t make the rules.” Daryl shrugs, nodding his head towards the ducks.
Rick raises a brow and chances a throw without looking.
“Yeah you did, you just set ‘em right now!” Rick says.
Then he looks at his throw and is visually taken aback, shuffling on his foot, bumping into a lady with a kid in a holster, when he sees that the dart’s stuck to another duck.
“Offer stands, no negotiations.” Daryl smirks. “Last shot.”
Rick bows away. The sun is starting to fade around them. Strings of lights flicker on like a parade, one after another, and there’re fewer children screaming for seconds on the tea cups. Rick steals a look at Daryl, whose face has done nothing to suggest all those things he’s been suggesting all summer and now Rick wonders if Daryl wants him to win.
Rick knows he himself had wanted to win, but didn’t know how bad. And it’s bad. So he tries this time. He cocks his head to the side, ignoring his beating heart, and inhales deeply, arching his arm back, before thrusting forward and casting the dart out with an exhale. It hits the top duck, right in the heart. Rick blinks. He swivels at the spot, and points an accusing finger at Daryl’s look of surprise when he’s assessing Rick’s winnings.
“You—you let me win.”
“I like pizza.” Daryl says, plucking the darts from the cardboard ducks and shuffling them into a basket.
“You let me win, after all this time, ‘cause you like pizza?”
“I didn’t let ya anythin’—think ya just needed the right motivation. ‘Sides, I really like pizza.”
Rick looks at him like he’s stupid. Everyone likes pizza, Rick thinks. Who cares if Daryl likes pizza? It’s not special that he likes pizza. Why the hell were they talking about pizza when they should be talking about how Daryl’s just casually coerced him into a date? He’s gunna ask about it, demand some explanation, but then Daryl’s looking at him as if he’s stupid. And oh.
“Oh.” Rick snorts.
“Know what, I think ya deserve to buy me a frozen lemonade too.” Daryl smiles.
It’s a good smile. That beauty mark, them half-moon eyes, the way those lips curve up? It’s a great smile, an all-body smile. Rick massages at his at cheeks, hoping to mask the massive returning grin on his face, because he’s sure he looks like a besotted idiot.
And not much later, when they’ve both gotten over being embarrassed, Rick’ll get Daryl the slice. And he’ll get that frozen lemonade and he’ll taste it on Daryl’s lips as they’re stuck at the top of the ferris wheel, those damn ducks beat and forgotten.